Lieutenant Scheisskopf unveiled his epochal surprise that Sunday with all the aplomb of an experienced impresario. He said nothing while the other squadrons ambled past the reviewing stand crookedly in their customary manner. He gave no sign even when the first ranks of his own squadron hove into sight with their swingless marching and the first stricken gasps of alarm were hissing from his startled fellow officers. He held back even then until the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache whirled upon him savagely with a purpling face, and then he offered the explanation that made him immortal.
“Look, Colonel,” he announced. “No hands.”
And to an audience stilled with awe, he distributed certified photostatic copies of the obscure regulation on which he had built his unforgettable triumph. This was Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s finest hour. He won the parade, of course, hands down, obtaining permanent possession of the red pennant and ending the Sunday parades altogether, since good red pennants were as hard to come by in wartime as good copper wire. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was made First Lieutenant Scheisskopf on the spot and began his rapid rise through the ranks. There were few who did not hail him as a true military genius for his important discovery.
“That Lieutenant Scheisskopf,” Lieutenant Travels remarked. “He’s a military genius.”
“Yes, he really is,” Lieutenant Engle agreed. “It’s a pity the schmuck won’t whip his wife.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Lieutenant Travers answered coolly. “Lieutenant Bemis whips Mrs. Bemis beautifully every time they have sexual intercourse, and he isn’t worth a farthing at parades.”
“I’m talking about flagellation,” Lieutenant Engle retorted. “Who gives a damn about parades?”
Actually, no one but Lieutenant Scheisskopf really gave a damn about the parades, least of all the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, who was chairman of the Action Board and began bellowing at Clevinger the moment Clevinger stepped gingerly into the room to plead innocent to the charges Lieutenant Scheisskopf had lodged against him. The colonel beat his fist down upon the table and hurt his hand and became so further enraged with Clevinger that he beat his fist down upon the table even harder and hurt his hand some more. Lieutenant Scheisskopf glared at Clevinger with tight lips, mortified by the poor impression Clevinger was making.
“In sixty days you’ll be fighting Billy Petrolle,” the colonel with the big fat mustache roared. “And you think it’s a big fat joke.”
“I don’t think it’s a joke, sir,” Clevinger replied.
“Don’t interrupt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And say ‘sir’ when you do,” ordered Major Metcalf.
“Yes, sir.”
“Weren’t you just ordered not to interrupt?” Major Metcalf inquired coldly.
“But I didn’t interrupt, sir,” Clevinger protested.
“No. And you didn’t say ‘sir,’ either. Add that to the charges against him,” Major Metcalf directed the corporal who could take shorthand. “Failure to say ‘sir’ to superior officers when not interrupting them.”
“Metcalf,” said the colonel, “you’re a goddam fool. Do you know that?”
Major Metcalf swallowed with difficulty. “Yes, Sir.”
“Then keep your goddam mouth shut. You don’t make sense.”
There were three members of the Action Board, the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, Lieutenant Scheisskopf and Major Metcalf, who was trying to develop a steely gaze. As a member of the Action Board, Lieutenant Scheisskopf was one of the judges who would weigh the merits of the case against Clevinger as presented by the prosecutor. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was also the prosecutor. Clevinger had an officer defending him. The officer defending him was Lieutenant Scheisskopf.
It was all very confusing to Clevinger, who began vibrating in terror as the colonel surged to his feet like a gigantic belch and threatened to rip his stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb. One day he had stumbled while marching to class; the next day he was formally charged with “breaking ranks while in formation, felonious assault, indiscriminate behavior, mopery, high treason, provoking, being a smart guy, listening to classical music and so on”. In short, they threw the book at him, and there he was, standing in dread before the bloated colonel, who roared once more that in sixty days he would be fighting Billy Petrolle and demanded to know how the hell he would like being washed out and shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies. Clevinger replied with courtesy that he would not like it; he was a dope who would rather be a corpse than bury one. The colonel sat down and settled back, calm and cagey suddenly, and ingratiatingly polite.
“What did you mean,” he inquired slowly, “when you said we couldn’t punish you?”
“When, sir?”
“I’m asking the questions. You’re answering them.”
“Yes, sir. I-“
“Did you think we brought you here to ask questions and for me to answer them?”
“No, sir. I-“
“What did we bring you here for?”
“To answer questions.”
“You’re goddam right,” roared the colonel. “Now suppose you start answering some before I break your goddam head. Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard, when you said we couldn’t punish you?”
“I don’t think I ever made that statement, sir.”
“Will you speak up, please? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir. I-“
“Will you speak up, please? He couldn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir. I-“
“Metcalf.”
“Sir?”
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then keep your stupid mouth shut when I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut. Do you understand? Will you speak up, please? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir. I-“
“Metcalf, is that your foot I’m stepping on?”
“No, sir. It must be Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s foot.”
“It isn’t my foot,” said Lieutenant Scheisskopf.
“Then maybe it is my foot after all,” said Major Metcalf.
“Move it.”
“Yes, sir. You’ll have to move your foot first, colonel. It’s on top of mine.”
“Are you telling me to move my foot?”
“No, sir. Oh, no, sir.”
“Then move your foot and keep your stupid mouth shut. Will you speak up, please? I still couldn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir. I said that I didn’t say that you couldn’t punish me.”
“Just what the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m answering your question, sir.”
“What question?”
“’Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard, when you said we couldn’t punish you?’” said the corporal who could take shorthand, reading from his steno pad.
“All right,” said the colonel. “Just what the hell did you mean?”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t punish me, sir.”
“When?” asked the colonel.
“When what, sir?”
“Now you’re asking me questions again.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand your question.”
“When didn’t you say we couldn’t punish you? Don’t you understand my question?”
“No, sir. I don’t understand.”
“You’ve just told us that. Now suppose you answer my question.”
“But how can I answer it?”
“That’s another question you’re asking me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But I don’t know how to answer it. I never said you couldn’t punish me.”
“Now you’re telling us when you did say it. I’m asking you to tell us when you didn’t say it.”
Clevinger took a deep breath. “I always didn’t say you couldn’t punish me, sir.”
“That’s much better, Mr. Clevinger, even though it is a barefaced lie. Last night in the latrine. Didn’t you whisper that we couldn’t punish you to that other dirty son of a bitch we don’t like? What’s his name?”
“Yossarian, sir,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf said.
“Yes, Yossarian. That’s right. Yossarian. Yossarian? Is that his name? Yossarian? What the hell kind of a name is Yossarian?”
Lieutenant Scheisskopf had the facts at his fingertips. “It’s Yossarian’s name, sir,” he explained.